


The Fine Line

by LexaWard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I wrote this before S3, It's short so nothing graphic but...still freaking angst, There were teasers out though, Unrequited Love, dark!Sherlock, i was really upset when i wrote this, loyal!john, pure angst, this is angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LexaWard/pseuds/LexaWard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was too avid in trying to get non-believers of Sherlock to believe. It cost him dearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Line

I’m going back. – SH

John will hit you. – MH

I’m well aware. Now shut up. – SH

Sherlock looked at the set of flats on Baker Street he’d so longed for since his departure. He’d decided that now he was coming back he must tell John how he felt. The pining he’d done for the older man had been pathetic during his time around the world and now all he could think was John. Finally crossing the threshold of 221 Baker Street he walked into Mrs Hudson’s apartment who turned around and promptly screamed, quite loudly. She’d worn a completely black dress and it really brought out her pale drained of blood face upon seeing Sherlock. It had been a tear filled reunion and when he’d asked about John’s accommodation she’d only sobbed harder and he left her crying on the chair with a cup of tea. Kissing her on the cheek he quickly went off to find Lestrade. His pocket buzzed.

Call me, immediately – MH

He ignored it, he’d been away far too long to put this off now for Mycroft. Then his phone rang incessantly four times before a black car appeared beside him. Turning into a sprint he weaved down alleyways and easily ditched the pursuing henchmen.

Sherlock, now is not the time to be stubborn. You seriously need to call me! – MH

Even though he’d never seen an exclamation mark from his brother in a text he continued to ignore it and found himself in New Scotland Yard’s car park. Finding Lestrade in an almost abandoned car park made the silver haired man yelp out and jump right out of skin. His face drained completely,  
“Sherlock…” He looked pained but not with shock, with utter grief. He wore a completely black suit like he was about to be off to an important event. His pocket buzzed once more.

Call me. Please for your sake Sherlock. You must call me. – MH

Lestrade let out a choked sob and held his hand to his face whilst Sherlock looked at him completely confused.  
“I didn’t realise my departure was so hard on you…What will John be like?” He questioned himself off to the side and Lestrade genuinely started to cry.  
“You don’t know…” He said so quietly it was almost inaudible.  
“What don’t I know?” He asked agitated.  
“John…he…he’s dead.” Sherlock stopped, everything in life stopped there.  
“You’re wrong.” He whispered. Every single wall he’d ever built up came crashing down all at once.  
“Look at me, Sherlock. I’m going to his funeral.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and stepped forward only for Sherlock to launch back.  
“Wrong. Wrong! WRONG!” Sherlock yelled and propelled himself forward grabbing the man by his lapels.  
“Where is he?!” He growled tears stinging his already wet eyes.  
“St Bart’s Morgue.” He tightened his grip and snarled in the man’s face before everything broke within him.  
“How…?” He fell on his knees his hands still loosely clutching onto Lestrade’s lapels.  
“Got into a bar fight when someone told him was deluded to trust you…” He shuddered and knelt to face Sherlock.  
“They hit him. He stumbled. Hit his head on a bar stool and was dead before he hit the floor.” Sherlock’s head bowed and he became heavy. Everything became heavy and something painful, excruciatingly painful constricted itself against his chest. He’d never felt any hurt like it and wailed out with a distinct choke on his own clenched throat.  
“Come on, Sherlock. Let’s say goodbye.” Lestrade hoisted the man up by his feet and one of Mycroft’s cars pulled up. The elder Holmes stepped out with a blank face.  
“Brother, come to me.” Sherlock was almost limp in Lestrade’s arms. After a minute of a non-committal response Mycroft stepped forward and pulled his brother into a piggy back carry and to the car.  
“My sincerest apologies Lestrade but I will be calling upon you later for some information.” He said bluntly and Lestrade gulped and in a sullen voice.  
“He won’t come then?” He motioned his hand to Sherlock’s limp form on the car seat.  
“My brother had great affection for the good doctor. I don’t think I could stop him from turning up even if it killed him.” He said in all honesty and got in the car the door closing with a final thud.  
Lestrade was left there and after a long ten minutes let out a shuddering breath before he climbed into his car and went to the Funeral of one, Doctor John. H Watson. A woman was there with her parents who he could only assume were John’s sister, Harriet, and parents. They all cried for their lost sibling and son. Several Yarders were there and were stood with pained faces. When he saw Mrs Hudson she was uncontrollably sobbing and he realised she must know about Sherlock too. Of course she’d be the first he’d revisit. He walked over and wrapped one arm around her shoulder and whispered,  
“it’s best we say nothing for now…” She nodded into his chest and blew her nose trying to get herself under control. John was buried next to Sherlock with a white grave and black engraving that simply stated:  
‘DR JOHN WATSON’  
much in parallel but completely opposite to Sherlock’s. When mourners had come and gone, Lestrade had made sure that Mrs Hudson had found a cab to take her back to Baker’s Street. He looked back to John’s grave to find in a similar yet completely new sight of a broken man standing at another’s grave and wishing him back to life. He turned around and left Sherlock to his own fate only to be called moments later by the eldest Holmes.  
Sherlock stood there with his head bowed.  
“You have no idea, John…You may have thought me the hero but my god, John. If you weren’t an angel then I was fighting for nothing. I only wish you’d have believed me. Just enough that you didn’t drink, didn’t go to that bar…didn’t…die.” He choked out through a heart filled throat,  
“You don’t owe me a thing, because I needed you more. You accepted me. You made me human, it wasn’t that I already was. You, it was all you. I can’t ask you to come back, you’re not me. You couldn’t convince everyone you’re dead like that. Too kind. If I could, I would stop this before it even started. I would stop everything and I would claw at time with you. But that’s sentiment talking. Something I will never be fond of…not now anyway.” He tried to keep his eyes clear but he hands only made it worse and tears streamed down him.  
“I love you, John. So this time, I’ll get it right.” He closed his eyes unable to keep them open and stepped forward and stroked the top of the grave feeling its cold appreciating touch to his fingertips. Moving back he turned and curling his coat around himself his face slowly became colder, heartless and with every step away from John the more certain he was that indeed, the only reason he was human was because of the man who’d he’d put in an early, and most certainly undeserved, grave. He didn’t know what hurt worse, the fact that he would never see John again, or the fact that if he could see John now the man would say ‘it’s not your fault, Sherlock.’ And either scenario crushed him.  
He was taken to Mycroft’s manor in the country that had been passed down from their parents. He stepped inside and instantly went towards the basement where his brother awaited by the door.  
“He is inside.” Mycroft said simply before walking away.  
“Do clean up your mess.” Sherlock opened the door.  
“John taught me how, don’t worry.” He walked over the threshold to see a man tied to a chair just coming into consciousness.  
“Who the fuck are you?” The man spat out some blood at Sherlock’s feet.  
“You killed a man, Dr John H. Watson, and are on trial for Manslaughter.” Sherlock stated simply pulling on a pair of leather gloves.  
“Yeah so?” He asked incredulous.  
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. The man you killed, was the man I loved.” The man’s eyes widened,  
“You’re that fucker who killed all those people.” He could correct him, but the terror in this man’s eyes was satisfying.  
“Consulting Criminal. I never normally like to get my hands dirty. But for you, I’ll make an exception.” He grabbed the man’s chin and held their faces inches from one another.  
“All this because I hit some bloke the wrong way?!” The man tried to pull back but Sherlock snapped him forward and with a glint that could be considered demonic said,  
“You should never play with dangerous men. You will regret it.” He knew John would disapprove but he was dead and the culprit was right in front of him. Would you be any different?  
Sherlock was on the side of the angels. He was on the side of his angel. But do not think for one second he is one of them.


End file.
